What Lies There Sleeping

He had reached that stage of life when the windows and doors of time opened and let in the delicious freedom from work. For forty-five years he spent his days doing the bidding of others, of the demands of schools, of extrinsic motivation to get up and out the door and into the great gears and wheels that kept a society operating.

But today, this cold January morning, he sat with a cat on his lap and a cup of coffee in his hand and ruminated on the dreams that had been disturbing him nightly, waking him in the wolf hours. He got up in the dark on those nights and went out into the cold air to look at the waning moon and wonder about the voices that called him out of sleep. 

We are, each of us, a repository of stories, one of the voices said. It's your work to create that story out the chaotic mess of your experience, to live becoming, even if it means leaving the comfort of your rest years.

Damn, he thought. What does that portend? 

His entire life had been lived under the whispers of that voice. In the beginning, he had lived on nothing, had hitchhiked across the country, slept under bridges, wandered along wilderness streams -- all in search of the source of that voice. 

But then he left the rocky path of searching for more security when he got married and raised two sons. That, of course, exacted its own kind of payment. 

Sleeping while dragons wander can come back to haunt a man on his death bed.  

So a choice now lay in front of him, as he sat there in his chair, looking down the barrel of a day wide open to possibility. He could follow the sirens and take the path of comfort or he could take the path that led into dangerous shadows, work undone, and go in search of what treasures he might never find. 

Dust lay on everything he needed. He would have to clean up his traveling boots, shoulder the worn pack, face down the voices that said no, and set out to wake the sleeping desires, uncover the hungry heart. 

You cannot serve two brides, dear bride groom, a voice somewhere cautioned him.

What I See Along the River

A road runner, descendant of velociraptors,  scans the shoulder of the bike path for lizards or garbage --  hungry, wanting. Another road runner further back. A mate? A dark-haired dog lies in the middle of the dry river bed. It raises its head to look at me. I can't tell if it was a coyote or not. It sets its head back down on the hard pan of scoured sediment. A pair of homeless campers set their gear out to dry in the breeze after the cold rain last night. Others lay bundled in sleeping bags, blankets, tarps, on top of pallets. One is working on his camp down in the wash, dragging back furniture that had washed downstream during the storm. There are piles of debris; a child's pink plastic car, big enough to sit in, sits still, vacant, and incongruous in the middle of the wash. Chairs, tarps, coolers, buckets, clothing, a toilet seat lie scattered on the sand. A red-tailed hawk, wings retracted in the "W" of a fast descent, cruises along beside me, close enough that I can see his breast feathers ruffled by the breeze. He looks straight at me. I think he is racing me. No contest there. He swoops up onto a dead tamarisk. Another canine, coyote for sure, very dark, old, ready to die, slowly crosses the path, not caring if I come too close to him. He lopes toward the river. Another man swears to no one I can see beneath a copse of mesquite trees tangled near the bank. Graffiti I have never noticed before spreads up the arroyo away from the river. One large message reads simply "ME" in block, spray-painted letters. Now, one might say I see only what I want to see, that there is beauty amid the death and suffering and predation. Fair enough. But it is what I see on this cloudy, December day, breeze off the mountain dusted in fresh fallen snow.

Soul Work

 Why are you there?

People sometimes ask.

There's nothing there

No bars, clubs, stores, movies, crowds, or

Pressure to dress it up, look good, fit in, hunger for fame, compete.

And all that ... silence... shudder.

 

I guess that's the point.

The nothing here.

The putting the wallet on the shelf

They keys on the hook

The phone on silent

All open a space

For something else

Some other intention.

Call it soul

Call it heart

Call it home.

It is between the notes

Of music I am learning to play

Of paint I am trying to conjure

Of words I search for in the dark.

 

It is in the extraction of distraction

That the light can shine in

That the way is revealed

That the veil parts.

 

Sit down with me,

A voice says,

Man without means

Without status

And tell me about

Your heart and its

Desires. 

 

Nocturne

The night smells of Tucson: deep fat fried chicken wings and chimichangas, creosote, melting tar, water on hot asphalt, jasmine. The train sounds like an organ or a choir as it pulls me from sleep in the wolf hour. Magical thinking tells me I can make the past right, but stars tell me I have to pour love into mistakes, the paths I have taken. They say make beauty out of chaos. You can never go back. If you did, you would find only ghosts. Very well then, I will walk with ghosts. My heart wants to make it right; my head knows I have to forgive. And so, this is my life, a fried Southwest tortilla, not, as I hoped, a cool, blonde, snow-capped milkshake. Here, in the dark, we can sit together, remember that the sky was once on fire with the colors of a dying day.

The Car Thief Is as Smooth and Cool as Glass

I get up early. I sit on the porch in the dark and watch as stars fade and light fills the city. It's my chosen time to brood and imagine how my day might unfold.

This morning, before the caffeine kicked in, I sat on the porch, too groggy to reflect before acting, while a nicely groomed young man walked down the street. He was slim, wore tight, dark clothes, had a compact backpack, and moved with the silent grace of a cat. 

I watched him. He wore a head lamp that he turned on and off; he slipped through shadows toward cars parked in front of the house. He shone the light through driver's windows and tried the doors as he moved with practiced efficiency toward my little truck.

My truck has been stolen before. It's an "easy mark" as the cops put it. Just jam a screw driver into to the ignition, turn it, and you're off to the races. Plus it's a four-wheel-drive, perfect for drug and human smuggling down by the border. It has seen some real action.

I watch as the shadow pauses on the other side of the truck, shines a light in, and jimmies the door. It opens and the dome light goes on.

Now, if I were half awake, or had two brain cells to rub together, I should have silently approached the truck and caught him in the act, but I am not one to decline my rage at being ripped off again.

I stood and marched toward the truck with a "What the f*$K are you doing?" already booming from my insulted, violated self that has never quite resolved all the thefts and insults from past robberies.

The figure was cool, so cool. 

"What are you talking about, man?"

"That's my truck. You just opened the door..." heart running faster than I could think.

"It was open, dude; I was just closing it," he said, voice as greasy and slick as Vaseline as he backed away. "I'm doing you a favor, bro."

He was already fifty feet away and turning into the alley.

I was stopped in my tracks by doubt. This guy was just a nice guy doing doing community service at 5:30 in the morning. I should be embarrassed for confronting him.

And then he was gone. 

I tried to follow but he had slipped already into the darkness. 

Should I call the cops? Should I get some kind if weapon and go searching for him?

I was bound by confusion.

He had won.

Beware the Old Man

The young man

So fresh into his strength

His power over others

Admires the lethality

Of his weapons

The blue sheen of his

Rifle

 

The old man

Blood on his hands

Remembers

And will hunt 

But never kill 

Beware the old man

Who never grew up

Who still

Glorifies the sound

Of a fist

On breaking bone

The thrill of going to battle

While he waits behind

On his gilded throne

For the first blood

Of the young man

To spill

Onto the waiting

Earth

 

In a Nutshell (Character Sketch) (Fiction, of Course)

She was born playing a game apart from that of her family. Their bases of success, physical beauty, penchant for the bon vivant, and wit formed the rules and horizons of worth and fun. She longed only for the role no one else wanted, and became the seeker, the one wanting insight, self-reflection, dissolving the ephemeral -- cultivating a spiritual life. That served only to deepen the chasm between her and her blood kin. They continued to strive, laugh, acquire, and pile up their worldly trophies in a great symphony of pleasure. She wanted their love but received only condescension and subtle scorn. It cut her to the bone, and she grieved. It took her a long time to let go, to love them for who they were and to find peace in her role as priestess, of keeper of the family soul and conscience. She would never win the family game and that was her wound, the portal to her freedom.